


Sending Postcards

by thinkpink20



Series: Lifting Latches/Sending Postcards [2]
Category: The Beatles
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-24
Updated: 2012-02-24
Packaged: 2017-10-31 17:00:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/346393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinkpink20/pseuds/thinkpink20
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The sequel to 'Lifting Latches'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sending Postcards

It's been a week and John still hasn't gone through with his threat to borrow Paul's jeans. 

In fact, nothing much has changed between them at all. Paul isn't sure what he expected (not hearts, flowers, roses, because this is _John_ for God's sake) but not this, not _normality._

John shows no real sign that anything happened; perhaps he touches him more, Paul can't be sure because he was never hyper-aware of the touching before, so perhaps it's just that now he's so much more in tune with it. And maybe John touches him _differently,_ he doesn't know - gets the idea one afternoon when they're at a little get-together Mrs Best is throwing in her back garden, when Paul is at the old trestle table that has been put out and dressed with something that may once have been curtains, then laden with food. He is standing near the butties, trying to avoid the pickle when a body presses up against him from behind. 

Instinct tells him it is John; doesn't need the smell of that weird soap Mimi buys to confirm it for him, he just knows from the angles of John's body, and there is an instant lick of fire in his belly in reaction. 

John's arm leans over him, snags a pile of crisps that have been laid out there in a bowl and then he says, "Sorry," in Paul's ear and moves away. 

But that wasn't the usual lean of someone against him, it was the close press of bodies that spoke of something more purposeful; in fact Paul is confirmed in this idea when he sees a similar bowl of crisps laying a small way away, at the front of the table with no one obstructing them. Which means he wasn't assuming things when he felt the precise placing of John's hips or the too-close brush of warm breath against his ear as John spoke. 

But that's all he's had, since the night in John's bed. 

Paul wonders slightly why he hasn't just pulled John aside and spoken to him about it, but he knows the answer to that really. It's because he knows that John is the master of avoidance; if he doesn't want to speak to you about something, he'll cut you off if you try to broach it, he'll have to dash away when you get him alone. And Paul doesn't want to have to go through that, knowing that John feels hounded by him for answers. Paul has seen something similar with Cyn; something she wanted to talk to John about but he wasn't having it, and Paul remembers feeling embarrassed for her at the time, watching her approach only to be shrugged off. He is so pathetic he almost wanted to talk to her himself about it, just so that the poor girl had someone to try and work things out with. 

So Paul isn't going to do a Cynthia and try to chase John for answers. 

Besides, even if John _wasn't_ an evasive arsehole, Paul isn't sure he would know what to say. 'So, d'you remember last week when we were naked in your bed?' He suspects he'd stumble and blush and give up before he got to word 'naked'. Plus, what was it? Sex? Hardly; it was just getting off. And though Paul wanted it to happen again, he wasn't sure he fancied _chatting_ about it first, and was probably even less interested in showing his weakness to John and _admitting_ he wanted it. Because when you showed John weakness, you were never _quite_ sure what you were going to get. 

Of course at the time, Paul had assumed John wanted it to happen again too, from the way he kissed his shoulder, made the crack about the jeans. And from the way he seemed relaxed about it all, about this sudden, explosive shift in their relationship. But then Paul supposed that was John all over; he seemed like he could handle things until suddenly, without warning, he couldn't handle them anymore and started to act like nothing happened. Paul had once heard Cynthia calling John a coward because of it, in the middle of some row that he hadn't wanted to be party to, before she'd stormed off into the cold night to catch her lonely bus back to Hoylake. It hadn't really meant much to him at the time, but now the word rings in Paul's head when he thinks about their night together. 

Which, he has to admit, is more frequently than is healthy. The first night, before he'd been _really_ aware anything was wrong, he'd gone to bed by himself and waited for the tinkle of stones on glass at his window. By three he'd given up and gone to sleep, imagining perhaps Mimi had found John trying to sneak out and all hell had crashed down over Woolton as a result. 

The next day, however, at practice, John had turned up bright and breezy as usual, laughing with Pete about the big teeth on the new cloakroom girl at the Cavern. Paul felt instantly stupid for assuming that John would have come to Allerton if he could, and since then he has been channeling his confusion into studied normality too, being as friendly and as jovial as they always are, determined not to let John see his hurt. 

And other than that moment at the Best's garden party, John has been acting utterly normal too. They have taken the girls out shopping together, sitting outside achingly dull dressing rooms as the girls tried on dresses and skirts for the increasing summer heat. They've also even managed to write a song, but instead of the usual close study of one another, sharing the cramped space of a bed with their guitars, it was done outside in Paul's back garden, John on the grass and Paul on the deckchair, the presence of both Mike (snapping photos) and Jim (snoring in the afternoon sun) dismantling any intimacy usually created by such a moment. Of course as a result the song was crap, and Paul tossed the lyrics in the bin as soon as the front door shut behind John. It only served to make him angry, that John's stubborn refusal to act like a normal human being had ruined a perfectly good song. 

Of course all this hurt and anger hasn't stopped him _wanting_ John, which is half of the problem. Paul isn't sure how John managed to open up this other side of their relationship that Paul hadn't even _suspected_ existed, and then proceeded to slam the door in Paul's face just when he'd started to enjoy it. But then that was probably just another Lennon mystery too; Paul is starting to feel a weight of sympathy for Cynthia, dealing with John's mind games on a regular basis. 

So it has been a week, and Paul's jeans have stayed firmly on Paul's hips. He ignores his disappointment about this, denies it even to himself most of the time. 

Then at the end of a pretty shoddy gig on the Wednesday, John says casually, "I'm away Friday, remember - no practice." 

Paul feels an instant drop of disappointment in his stomach. 

"Give our regards to Wales," Pete says, slapping John on the back once and waving to the rest of them. Paul tries to hurry to follow him out but his case isn't being cooperative and by the time he's done there's only he and John left. 

"Fancy walking to the bus stop?" John asks, pulling on his jacket. 

"Sure." 

Even though July is handing them a heatwave in the daytime, the night still manages to be freezing, especially when they've been packed into a busy pub all night. Paul feels the sweat cooling on his skin and making him shiver as they head out into the calm Liverpool night. They played late, well after closing for the unorganised lock-in the manager put on (paid them well enough for it too, Paul recalls, thinking of the collection of notes in John's pocket) and because it's nearly half one the streets are empty, quiet. They don't play this area often so the avenues are still a slight maze trying to get back to the bus stop, but they walk the route in conpaniable silence as they go, guitar cases knocking each other occasionally as they walk, giving them an excuse to share a grin. 

"So, you decided to go with Mimi and the girls this weekend, then?" Paul asks, rooting in his pocket for a cigarette, gasping for a smoke after all that nicotine in the air at the gig but no way to get his hands on any. 

"Old bag forced me into it, didn't she?" John replies, producing his matches when he sees what Paul is up to. They stop for a moment to light a fag each, huddling together in the darkness over the flame, Paul acutely aware of John's body. 

"Can't let Julia and Jackie down though," Paul offers after the particularly satisfying first exhale of smoke. "Doubt they want to go visiting relatives any more than you do." 

"Yeah, trapped out in the middle of the sticks with a bunch of kids though," John says, and Paul knows he doesn't mean it, thinks the world of Julia and Jackie really. 

"Only for a few days," Paul shrugs, realising they have reached the bus stop, for what it's worth - it's the only place the all-nighter stops around here and it's basically just a post stuck in the ground next to a pub that looks like it surrendered at the same time as the Germans. The place is deserted, offering nothing but dark shop fronts and the occasional stray cat. 

"Easy to say when it's not you going," John says, finding a semi-clean shop doorway and sitting down on the step. 

Paul watches him in the darkness, illuminated briefly by the orange embers at the end of his cigarette before it's screwed out on the floor by the heel of John's boot. 

He is about to look away when John meets his gaze, holds his eyes for a minute and then pats the empty space beside him. 

Paul feels his stomach jump at the sudden change in atmosphere, finishes up his own ciggie and flicks the butt away before joining John on the step. 

"Cold out here, isn't it?" John asks, though now they're actually cramped together in the doorway, it's nothing of the sort. 

"From being in the pub all night," Paul says, glancing away down the street, half hoping to see the bus, half hoping it will never come. The image of he and John lying on John's bed, all flushed skin and gasping against each other flickers vividly through his mind. 

"You're being twitchy," John tells him after a moment, snapping him out of his thoughts, and in surprise Paul looks away from the road and glances at John. They're sitting so close he's only inches away and Paul's eyes are drawn to the damp hair clinging to his forehead, aware his own is probably the same. 

"I'm not." But he doesn't even believe that himself, and it sounds weak. 

John smiles, and there is something in it that makes Paul's stomach curl with heat. "I can read you like a book, remember?" John asks, but he says it in such a way that is both gentle and flirtatious; it reminds Paul of the way John is with girls at gigs sometimes, talking them into whatever it is he wants them to do. Paul is ashamed to admit that it has the same effect on him that it has on the girls. 

And of course Paul remembers when John last told him that; instantly feels the warmth underneath the sheets of his bed, the flourishing feeling of something about to happen. 

He wonders if it will happen now, too. 

"Didn't think we were mentioning any of that," Paul says, suddenly looking away. He hears himself and is glad that he manages to sound aloof, but he's aware that John knows him well enough to work out that there is something behind that pretence. 

Whilst looking away down the street into the darkness of the night, Paul hears John sigh loudly in that sharp, impatient way he has that suggests you're just being a blight on his world all of a sudden. 

"God, Paul! What did you expect? Fucking flowers and chocolates? I'm your mate, remember? Not some stupid bird with a crush, here." 

But when Paul looks back he sees that actually, John looks far less pissed off than he sounds. He meets Paul's eyes easily; something he wouldn't do if he was genuinely angry. "Fine, forget it, then," Paul says. 

But John doesn't drop it. "Did you expect me to turn up at your house with a single red rose?" 

"Piss off, John." 

Then for a second they just glare at one another, but Paul is shocked to find that he is really the one glaring; John is looking at his mouth. For a second Paul wonders if John will kiss him, wonders if he'll ever get to know what that feels like again, to have that hot, demanding feeling clawing at him, reminding him that John wants him _very much._ He still remembers the moment that he pulled John's lips down onto his, remembers the wet, frantic slide of it and aches briefly, wishing for it back. He also wishes that he had the courage to just do it now, here. But he doesn't, because John is still John, and somehow the unwritten rule is that John makes the moves, with the band, with the friendship, and now with this. It was the same with the t-shirt - John's decision to steal it. Paul wonders if he'll ever be brave enough to make a move like that. 

And then the moment is gone, because John sighs again and stands up, starts walking a little way in front of him, on the still deserted road. 

Is that it, then? Paul wonders. Was it just a one time thing? 

The thought not only makes him disappointed (he expected that, the desire for more - has been living with it all week), but also shocked. Because though he'd idly considered that it might be it, that there might be no more between them, he'd never really _believed_ it. He'd always had _hope,_ because it was him and John, and this friendship had never, ever been normal or what he'd expected - it kept pulling new things out of him, showing him new situations. And he'd never expected that _this_ new thing would be over before it started. 

"Mendips is actually a very hard house to get out of, I'll have you know," John says suddenly, coming to a stop a little way in front of Paul and glancing down at him briefly, almost as though he's embarrassed. Paul watches him kick a stone slightly with his foot, letting his eyes connect with Paul's for a second. He should look intimidating like this, standing over him, but instead he seems soft. And something else too, something created by the angles of his body, his shoulders straight and his eyes full of something Paul recognises briefly from that night, from the moment John told him what he'd been doing whilst wearing his t-shirt. He looks... sexy. And Paul feels a thrill when he thinks it, almost shocked by his own realisation. 

He isn't, however, sure what he's meant to say to John's words. Is it an offering? An excuse? "You've got out of there before," he eventually settles on. Because if it _is_ an excuse, it's a poor one. 

"Yeah well," John says, "You've got no idea what it's like for Alun and me." 

Alun is the new student, Welsh and speccy and John always speaks to him in the most patronising Welsh accent in the world that breaks Paul into hysterics. 

When Paul doesn't say anything, just continues to look at the floor, John kicks the stone hard, until it bounces up and hits Paul on the leg, just to get his attention. "Hey!" he says, rubbing the front of his calf. 

"You don't understand," John says. "It's like having a dragon on the door, listening for the creak of your floorboards." 

"Well, not to worry, eh? You've got nowhere to sneak out to now, have you? So it's not a problem." 

Paul knows he's sulking, suspects he sounds a little that way too, so he keeps his eyes on the pavement. From the corner of his eye he can see John's feet moving, fidgeting about as though he's a schoolboy waiting outside the headmaster's office. 

"Didn't know you'd be so bothered," John eventually says, and Paul looks up. Now it's John looking at the floor, refusing to meet his eye. "You never said anything about it." Then he coughs, corrects himself. "Afterwards, I mean." 

Paul can't believe he's hearing this, wonders what John will say - _do_ \- if he parrots back that line he gave him earlier about expecting flowers and chocolates. But he doesn't dare risk it. 

"Neither did you." Paul says. 

"Not the easiest thing to drop into a conversation, is it?" John asks. Paul watches as he risks a glance then looks away, clearly embarrassed. He realises there is a flush on John's cheeks and feels himself get suddenly hot, his skin almost too tight and uncomfortable. 

"You could have just... done something." Paul ignores the fact that he couldn't bring himself to say the word 'kiss'; it sounds too stupid shared by two boys in the dark. Speaking it out loud would be too real, and he's afraid John might bolt. 

There is a silence for a long minute, then John meets his eyes. "Wanted to." 

He says it so quietly, Paul is barely even sure he hears it at all. The fact that his heart is suddenly going like mad in his chest tells him though that yes, he probably did hear it after all. He feels rooted to the little shop doorway, like he's glad he's sitting because his legs don't feel much use at the moment anyway. It's still slightly insane though, how just a conversation with John can make him feel like this, the way all the girls he's ever had can't, even when they're crawling on top of him, minus their clothes. 

Paul knows he wets his lips because the second he does it, John's eyes go to his mouth. If his brain wasn't reduced to primal, incoherent thought, he might actually do something about all this. 

"You gonna stand up, then?" John asks quietly, and Paul is reminded why John is the leader of everything they do; because he has the balls to say what Paul wants to but can't. And he's finding out that apparently, the way John says things turn Paul's stomach to molten liquid. 

He struggles to get to his feet, thinks perhaps he should be graceful but eventually John holds out a hand and hauls him up, letting go the second Paul is on his feet - though he's not very steady, misses that firm hand immediately. Then they're standing there, inches away when - 

The headlights of the night bus stream into the narrow alleyway, lighting up every shop front and shallow archway like a Christmas tree. Even though the lights aren't even that bright, they appear so because Paul's eyes have grown used to the darkness, and he has to squint, feeling like he's been abruptly woken by someone shining a light in his eyes. 

They don't have very long to pull themselves together; the bus stops quickly and the driver doesn't seem best pleased to have landed the graveyard shift. Paul pushes his guitar case onto the empty back seat then lets himself fall down onto the soft cushion, waiting for John to join him. 

The silence as he sits too is somewhat uncomfortable, having been yanked out of their private moment so unceremoniously. Then Paul feels a knee nudge against his and he nudges back, glad of the contact. 

"Stupid fucking bus driver," Paul says, and John abruptly begins to laugh hard, which breaks the ice completely. He can't help but smile proudly that he's elicited such a response, pushes his knee firmly against John's and feels pressure back a second later, staying like that for the rest of the journey. 

 

 

  
He isn't sure why John didn't get off at his stop with him, isn't quite sure why he went home alone, but he did. Paul knows this because he wakes up alone, the image of John standing over him in the streetlight being the first thing he thinks of. 

The second thing he thinks of, of course, is that John is going to Wales tomorrow. Five days suddenly seems like a lifetime, and he knows he has to find the courage from somewhere to do something tonight, to try and get John on his own - he's finally coming around to the idea that this is actually something he _wants,_ even if he does have to push the implications of that to the back of his mind. And if he wants something, Paul knows he has enough ambition to go out and get it. 

They're taking the girls to the cinema at six, then to some stuffy little pub in the middle of Woolton afterwards. Paul thinks about making some sort of big fancy effort, then ends up pulling on John's t-shirt at last minute simply because it's the only thing he _wants_ to wear; wants to get inside John's skin, preferably, but failing that he'll settle for the cotton that's been against him, poor substitute though it is. 

When Paul gets off the bus at the bottom of Church Street, he sees John sitting back on the edge of a low wall a little way away. He puts his cigarette out on the floor as Paul approaches, blows smoke up into the air and clearly takes in what Paul is wearing. "Girls are late," he says, without preamble, then reaches out and takes hold of the corner of the t-shirt Paul has got on. The action means that Paul has to step closer so that he doesn't topple over from being tugged at and he ends up standing with his feet either side of John's, where he's sitting back, feet crossed. "I see you dressed appropriately," John says, and they share a knowing smile, Paul feeling satisfied with his clothing choice. 

"As did you," he says, nodding down at the t-shirt that now looks more familiar on John than it does on him. When John doesn't let go of the edge of his shirt, Paul smirks and looks down. "If you don't let go, people'll start to think you're trying to take it off." 

"Well, I am," John leers. 

Then the noise of the girls coming around the corner makes them both look, the clack of heels on the pavement and complaining voices about the bus. "Bloody hell," John calls to the girls, letting go of the shirt. Paul feels him press the material down once, hand warm against his skin. "Thought you'd stood us up!" 

"Sorry," Cyn says, breathing hard. "Stupid bus driver." 

"Yeah, we had one of them last night," John says, shooting Paul a very quick glance. "Come on, or we'll miss the film." 

As Paul kisses Dot hello, he tries not to smile too much at that comment. 

The film is stupid, and the lead actress looks snooty and detached, like she doesn't even care about her love interest. But this time he and John sit together, separating the girls so that they can't natter, though they do manage to make them laugh by doing stupid impressions of the heroine every time she goes into a dead faint. John throws himself around the seat with his arm over his eyes and Cynthia doesn't manage to stifle her giggle, which gets Dot going and then Paul gives in too, before a bloke a few rows back coughs pointedly and John turns round. "You want something from the doctors for that, mate - sounds nasty," he says, and Cyn taps him gently on the knee to shut him up before burying her head in his shoulder, laughing hard. 

After the film is done they go to the pub, buy some drinks and then listen in a bored sort of manner as the girls talk about shoes and what Dot's mother is doing for the latest Church service. Paul keeps glancing quickly at John, discovering him looking and then forcing his eyes to flit away before he smiles too widely. Though inside he feels impatient, only too aware that these are his last few hours with John before he disappears for days. The clock inside Paul's head is ticking and he can't believe the only new thing he's learning tonight are the ingredients for Jessie Rhone's famous cottage pie recipe. 

He's glad when he gets to escape to the toilets a few minutes later, and he's just washing his hands at the little sinks they have before going back outside when the door opens and John appears. 

_"God,"_ he says, sounding exasperated. "If I hear one more thing about fucking cottage pies, I'm going to turn into one." 

Paul laughs, feeling the familiar (embarrassing) flutter of excitement he gets around John these days. Then he realises they're alone and it increases slightly, scenarios suddenly toppling over in his mind like clothes in a washing machine. "You not interested in the exciting adventure of Dot's mother, then?" he asks, glancing along the row of sinks, where John is leaning casually at the end. 

"Na, she's not really my type," John says, pushing himself away from the cool porcelain. Paul watches from the corner of his eye, still busy washing his hands, as John makes his way closer, eventually stopping just behind him. "I don't know how you put up with her." 

Paul glances up into the mirror and makes eye contact with John's reflection. "No, me either," he says quietly. He's painfully aware of how close John is behind him, hopes to Christ that no one walks through that door any time soon. 

"So," John asks, sounding as though he's desperately trying to be casual as he steps up right behind Paul and fits their bodies together. "What did you think of the film?" 

Paul, who has turned off the taps by now but is still watching John in the mirror, hears himself laugh slightly nervously. "Don't know," he says. "Can't remember what it was about." 

Then John leans forward and kisses the side of his neck, and Paul forgets _everything,_ never mind films and double dates and drinks in pubs. The feel of John's lips on his neck, damp and parted, contrasting with the warmth of his breath, makes Paul shiver. He grips tightly onto the basin as John's fingers slip up, underneath the edge of his t-shirt, touching his skin. "Jesus Christ," Paul says. 

"Na, wasn't about him," John replies, pulling back from his neck but leaving his hands where they are, meeting Paul's eyes in the mirror. "I think I'd remember if it was about him." 

"I - Can I stay at your's tonight?" 

He's not even sure where the question comes from, but Paul decides it's probably a case of thinking with the contents of his pants rather than with his brain. It seems to please John though, who grins at him in the mirror. "Thought you'd never ask," he says. Then he kisses Paul's neck again, briefly, and seems to press his nose into Paul's hair very quickly - so much so that Paul actually wonders whether he imagined it - and backs away. "Come on, the girls will be waiting." 

He saunters out of the bathroom, all confidence, whilst Paul just stands there for a second, feeling stunned and half aroused and nowhere near ready to hear any more stories about Dot's mother's bloody cottage pie. 

 

 

  
Once they see the girls safely on the bus home (wave at them through the back window, Cyn slightly puffy eyed because she won't see John for a week), they turn back down Allerton Road and walk along in silence. They must have made this journey together a hundred times, but Paul swears they've lengthened the road or something, because it's never taken this long. And clearly someone has picked 251 up and dumped it further down Menlove Avenue, because it seems to take years to get there, not minutes. 

It's still only half ten by the time they arrive back, so Alun is bent over his text books in the back living room ("Alright, boyo?" John shouts to him in a stupid accent and Alun flushes, clearly irritated but far too scared of John to do anything about it and Paul tries to hold back a smirk) and Mimi is in the front room, writing letters. 

"Catching up on some correspondence, Mimi?" John asks, stealing a toffee from the little bowl on her desk before she has a chance to slap his hand away. 

"You smell like a brewery," she says. "Hello, Paul." 

Paul manages to mutter something akin to a hello whilst John winks at him when Mimi looks away. "How does a brewery smell if it's got no nose?" John asks instantly, and Mimi clicks her tongue. 

"Good heavens, John, get out from under my feet - there's some biscuits in the tin in the kitchen if you want them, Paul." 

"How come he gets offered biscuits and I don't?" 

"Because he's a nice young man who doesn't run in here stealing my toffees." 

"Only because it's not his 'ouse, he hoovers up everything in sight when he's at home, don't you, Paul?" 

Just as he's about to defend himself, Mimi tuts loudly. "It's _h_ ouse, John, don't drop the H from the front, it's slovenly." 

"There's a mouse, who lives in a 'ouse, who acquired a louse, to pick out his - " 

"John!" 

Paul tries to school his face but he's shaking with quiet laughter as he looks away at the photographs on the mantelpiece to distract himself; Julia when she was about 20, John when he was a little boy, looking angelic. "Don't you like my rhymes?" John asks, feigning sadness. "You've gutted me, Mimi; really gutted me. Come on, Paul." 

"Goodnight, Mimi," Paul says, slipping out of the front room and following John up the stairs, still trying not to laugh. "You'll give her a heart attack one of these days," he says, when they're safely shut in John's room. 

"She's screwed up as tightly as cat's arse," John mutters, dropping onto his bed and producing two more stolen toffees from his pocket. Paul takes the one offered to him and joins John, sitting as close as he can get. 

"You wind her up." 

_"She_ winds _me_ up, you mean. She's always peck, peck, pecking away at the back of my neck like an unfriendly parrot." 

Paul laughs, swallows his toffee and glances sideways at John, who has turned to look at him. He marvels briefly at how quickly the atmosphere can change, just from their staring at one another for a few minutes, and shifts his leg until it's resting on top of John's. 

"Come on, then," John says, voice suddenly much lower. 

"Come on what?" 

"Kiss me." 

Paul's stomach turns like he's missed a step going down and he glances down from John's eyes to his mouth. "Only if you ask nicely," he says, and is rewarded with John's surprised laughter. 

"You cheeky little fucker." 

Whilst he's still grinning, Paul leans forward and catches his chance, pressing his lips against John's, who doesn't miss a beat and immediately kisses him back. Being long overdue, it doesn't take long to escalate, John holding the side of Paul's face, keeping him where he wants him, tongue brushing in and out of his mouth, driving Paul crazy. He feels like it's turning all of his limbs to jelly, curling around and around inside him and he can barely hold on to what's happening, he's wanted this so much. He feels like he can't catch up quickly enough, like he's waited for it and now it's going to happen too fast and he'll miss it. Paul's been thinking about it, dreaming about it, fantasising about it; so much so that as soon as he feels John pushing him down into the mattress he has a stab of fear that he'll just come before John even gets to him. And whilst this isn't one of their wanking games to see who can hold out longest, he'll still endure some quantity of mockery if he can't even manage to get his jeans off. 

Which is why he drags John's hand away from his crotch when it shifts down there, pressing against the hardness of the denim. The kiss is immediately broken and Paul is being frowned at by a very confused John lying on top of him. "What?" 

"Just..." Paul squirms, feeling flushed and embarrassed, willing his mind to calm down. "You set me off in the pub," he says, hearing how embarrassed he sounds. "I'm just... close, that's all." 

He watches the slow smirk spread across John's face and feels a vague dread that he'll be hearing about this for years to come, every time John fancies laughing at him, which could be very often. "Well well, haven't I always called you three-seconds-and-done McCartney?" He leans down to kiss at Paul's neck and Paul realises in a distracted sort of way that he actually raises his chin to give John more room. 

"No, you haven't," he says. 

"Well I should do, shouldn't I?" John asks, his mouth slipping down, sucking hard enough to leave a mark and causing Paul to grip hard at the back of John's t-shirt, twisting the material underneath his fingers. 

"John," he says, "You'd better stop." 

"Oh no," comes the muffled reply at the base of his neck, teeth nipping at Paul's skin and sending sensations right down to the base of his spine. "I'm going to see just how little it takes." 

"John - " 

"What?" 

"Don't be so evil." 

The mouth on his neck stills, then John sits up slightly, still smiling at him. "How long have you known me now?" Then his fingers are working at the button on Paul's jeans, being very careful where he's touching, unzipping the fly slowly. "Surely you've learnt that just asking doesn't stop me, haven't you?" 

And against his will, Paul feels his hips lift as John pulls down his jeans and boxers, still careful not to actually _touch_ him, then tugs off Paul's t-shirt. He watches as John then shrugs off his own clothes, dropping his jeans carelessly on the floor then sitting up, straddling Paul as he pulls off his top and the view from where he's lying is just... well, Paul feels like he's running on only half his brain, like he's trying to complete some complex task whilst horribly drunk. And it only gets worse when John kisses him again, totally taking charge and lying back down on top of him, rubbing against him like a cat, body all hard angles and warm skin. 

When John thrusts against him, rolling his hips, Paul tries to stop himself from groaning into their kiss but doesn't quite manage it. The next thing he knows, John is kissing his neck, moving up to his ear and speaking quietly. "Shut up, Paul, they'll hear us." He's almost laughing, Paul can hear from his voice that he's smiling and he tries to shift away, to get back to John's mouth for another kiss but John stops him. "Now, what's going to happen is that I'm going to make you come without putting my hands anywhere near you, and you're going to be quiet whilst I do it, okay?" 

Paul secretly suspects John won't have any difficulty with that plan at all, can feel himself wavering on the edge of his orgasm anyway. The sound of John's voice is only adding to the problem, making him ache.

There is another series of wet, possessive kisses on his neck that threaten to short-circuit Paul's thinking ability altogether as he pushes one hand up into John's hair. He can hear himself breathing fast, closes his eyes firmly at the slight scrape of teeth on the exposed curve of his chin and arches into the feeling of John's willing body, moving against him again and again until Paul thinks he'll lose his mind altogether with the rush of it. Then Paul shivers at John's voice against his ear, damp lips brushing his skin. "God, I thought I was going to have you last night at that dark little bus stop; thought I was going to push you against the wall and fuck you senseless." 

The idea of that, the image of it, causes Paul to dig his fingers into the skin of John's hips, rubbing shamelessly against him, knowing he's desperately close. He can feel that familiar drag low in his stomach, slipping down between his legs and causing him to reach out for something to hold onto. He grasps at John, too desperate at this exact moment to try to save it to memory, just eager for John, any way he can get him. Paul presses up against him again, pushing against those strong hips that are so unlike any girl he's ever been with, reminding him of the difference, reminding him this is _John._ And the friction feels delicious as they speed up and that now-familiar mouth leans down to kiss Paul's neck again, the feel of a gentle bite underneath his ear causing him to shudder. He just needs _one_ more thing to push him over the edge. He trusts that somehow, John will know what it is. 

"But d'you know what I really want, Paul?" 

Somehow Paul manages to shake his head slightly, eyes still closed, vaguely aware that he's probably panting quite loudly, hopes no one chooses this exact moment to come upstairs to bed and feels the heat pouring off his skin. He waits silently for John to speak again, the sound of uneven breathing against his ear as they move frantically against each other pulling him taut like a guitar string ready to snap. And when John speaks again, the sound of it goes straight to his stomach.

"I want to kiss you until your mouth's bruised and sore, then have your lips wrapped around the base of my dick." 

Paul tries to grip onto John's waist to hold himself still and hopefully last a little longer, but he loses it and comes at those words, groaning quite loudly until John shifts up and kisses him to shut him up, swallowing the noise. He thinks at some point John might have told him to, "Shut the fuck up, for God's sake," he but can't be sure. Because he barely remembers his own name, frankly. And then before he has a chance to even try to recover, he feels a hand grabbing at his and wrapping his fingers firmly around John's dick, urging him on. Paul knows he's not being very coordinated but he tries his best, tries to remember what he likes done to him, but it doesn't take much anyway, before John is coming into his palm and everywhere frankly feels like a bit of a sticky mess. 

When Paul eventually has his breath back, he hears himself laughing quietly. 

"What?" John asks, and he sounds groggy, face half buried in the pillow, body slightly shifted off Paul's, probably on his way to sleep. 

"I think you talked _yourself_ into that, not just me." There is a huff of responding laughter, then John kicks him in the shin. "Ow!" 

"Yeah, but at least I waited until someone touched me. And I didn't make enough noise to alert Alun, Mimi and the effing next door neighbours to what was happening." 

Paul rolls over onto his side to face John and watches him in the darkness. His hair is a mess and his eyes are dropping closed with sleep, but Paul traces the curve of his shoulders with his eyes in the weak streetlight coming from outside. "Night," he says, realising John is watching him too. The more he comes back to himself, thinking about what just happened, the more he finds himself thinking about what John said, what it is he has just confessed he wants - Paul has no idea if he could do that. He glances at the fall of John's hair on his face, the eyes that seem sharp and thoughtful, even those he's clearly almost dozing off. 

Could he really do that? 

"Night," John mumbles. 

Ignoring the wet patch on his stomach, Paul shifts closer and kisses him, feeling John respond instantly and wondering if he really is as half asleep as he appears. They kiss until they're breathless, then Paul pulls back, snuggling into the pillow to get comfortable. 

He shuts his eyes and tries to imagine it, wonders how queer _that_ would make them. Then he winces, hopes John hasn't seen him and tries to blank his mind, hoping for sleep. 

 

 

 

  
"Where're you goin'?" John asks, halfway through a yawn. 

"Mimi's been banging on the door for the last ten minutes telling us to get up," Paul laughs, trying to find his t-shirt in the mess. "And I seriously need to get home for a bath." 

They'd woken up in the night and done it again; a slow, lazy kissing session followed by Paul managing to last for a much less shameful amount of time. Which means that he now just really wants a bath and then to go back to bed, if that's at all possible. 

Which it isn't for John, because Mimi is already talking about them eating breakfast and leaving early. 

"Save me from her," John says in a frighteningly good imitation of the heroine from last night's film and Paul laughs, rubbing at his hair. 

"No can do, sorry; I have a grumpy relative of my own to get back to." 

"Yeah, but he'd never notice you gone and he prefers Mike anyway, which frankly I can't blame him for because - hey!" 

Paul stills, hoping his grin isn't as wide as he suspects it is. He is in the process of pulling on John's jeans, and realises he's been caught. 

He knows what he's doing, of course; they're not even vaguely similar, the two pairs on the floor. John's are much darker in colour and have a little pattern on the back pocket (Paul knows - he's been staring) whereas his own are lighter, worn around the knees and just generally scruffy. Which makes sense, because Mimi is always buying John new things, trying to smarten him up, make sure he looks respectable. 

"What?" He says, feigning innocence. And now John is grinning at him, looking inordinately pleased. 

"Right, come here." 

Paul squirms out of the way. "No, no way, you haven't cleaned your teeth." 

John laughs loudly as though this is the funniest thing he's ever heard. "Prude." 

"Excuse me," Paul points out, "I'm not a prude, I've just followed through on the clothes-stealing threat _you_ made over a week ago. I just have good oral hygiene." 

"I bet you do." And Paul isn't surprised that if anyone can carry off a leer at this time of the morning, it's John. That statement, however, does remind him of what was said last night, the thing that hasn't been mentioned since but _has_ been going round and round in his head since he woke up. So he tries to pass it off. 

"Right, I'm off; have a nice holiday." 

"Hey!" John shouts, "You're not really just buggering off, are you? Stay for breakfast, at least." 

"Can't," Paul says, his hand on the door handle. "I've got this new pair of jeans I want to show off 'round town. Have a good holiday, alright?" Then he smirks, opens the door and almost bumps into Mimi on the landing. 

"You're a shit!" John shouts behind him in reply to the jeans comment, not realising she's there, and Paul tries not to laugh at Mimi's resulting frown. 

"Language, John!" She admonishes loudly, and Paul says a quick, 'Morning,' to her before ducking his head back into John's room and laughing at the scowl John gives him. 

"Have fun," he says, then disappears before John can shout anything else vulgar at his retreating back. 

As he says goodbye to Alun and shuts the back kitchen door of Mendips, Paul huddles into his coat, feeling the cold because of his lack of sleep. He may be tired and it may be a long walk back to Allerton, but with John's comment from last night still echoing in his mind, he has a lot to think about, anyway. 

 

 

 

 

Paul sleeps most of Friday, then lies in on Saturday morning with the radio on. He isn't sure if he's got the music on to _stop_ himself thinking, or whether the noise just interferes with his thoughts anyway. All he knows is that John is simultaneously the _only_ thing he can think about and yet also the one thing he's trying to avoid thinking about most.

Because after the first time, he'd been so busy wondering why it wasn't happening again that he didn't have time to wonder what it meant. And if John had just _been_ here, Paul could have filled his time being with him and writing songs or just acting daft, but the thing was that John had left him all on his own to think, and Paul isn't great when he thinks too much.

He starts to plan out all the ways it could possibly go wrong, all the implications of what everything means, all the implications of everything he _wants._

Because that's the one thing that doesn't go away - the want.

Paul wakes up on the Saturday morning and realises as soon as his eyes flicker open that he's been dreaming about John; he's hard and he wants to turn over, burrow back down into sleep so that he can get back to the dream. He doesn't question the fact that he wants John there, that seems obvious; besides, there's not much he can do about what he wants, not really.

But what it _means_ is a different thing. 

He's not queer, knows that, and knows that John isn't either. But it can all be explained away for John by the fact that he's just a randy bastard; he'll have anyone, Paul's seen him in Hamburg with the girls - it doesn't really matter what they look like a lot of the time, sometimes it's just about the conquest or the need for someone being pliant with him, giving him what he asks for. So Paul decides that for John it _could_ just be about the element of difference, the risk involved to heighten the thrill.

He can't say the same thing about himself, though.

Paul doesn't have set morals about being true to Dot, that's laughable to him - she might be the one he goes steady with, but that doesn't mean she's the only one he sleeps with. There are opportunities for other girls and thus, there are other girls. But he doesn't _need_ the other conquests, not the way John does. So for him it isn't just about something new, _catching_ someone new and experiencing it - for him it's about _John._

And that's what worries him - not even so much that John is male (though of course that worries him too, he burns hot with shame just at the thought of what his father would say, how disappointed he would be, how confused) - but just that John is _John._ Because John is ready for anything weird and different and new, but Paul isn't, not really - most of the time he'd prefer to stick to what he knows, thank you very much. Or at least until he's looked at the new thing from every possible angle and analysed it and made sure it's not going to blow up in his face or alter his life too much. He likes stability, deep down, but John bucks against it, has had so little of it that he goes as far as to feel threatened by it - and Paul knows that is why this could possibly ruin their friendship; because John will like this new thing for a while, try it on, enjoy it, but then he'll let it go. And Paul will be left behind, not being able to let go, just getting used to the stability, and then that will kill what was there in the first place - the friendship.

And that's not the _only_ thing he's dwelling on, of course.

Pretty much every time he licks his lips, or wipes his mouth, or looks in the mirror, he remembers John's voice in his ear. It turns him on, of course it does, but it also leaves him partially terrified - he still has no idea if he could _do_ that, if he could go down on John the way Dot does on him, the way several rather expert working girls have gone down on him in Hamburg in cheap, damp bedrooms somewhere. It's not the fact that it's too intimate (Paul is mildly shocked to discover that he doesn't really class anything as 'too intimate' where John is concerned; wonders when that happened), it's the fact that it's something a _girl_ does. And that it can't be explained away _at all_ as a fumble, as a mistaken kiss with your mate because you're both missing your girls. It's _real._ It has intent and purpose and Paul has _no_ bloody idea how to do it.

When he thinks about doing it to a nameless stranger the thought disgusts him, but with John...

Well, Paul gets a thrill in his stomach that he can't deny. And he's scared, yes, but that doesn't stop him wanting to try it.

Which is why he's so glad he's seeing Dot on the Saturday night. And why he's so glad her parents are out visiting her grandmother, giving them the place to themselves.

They're kissing on the sofa, Elvis crooning in the background, when Paul lifts her hand to the top button of his shirt, hoping she'll know what to do. As her brightly polished nails start to undo each button in turn, he definitely doesn't think about John tugging his t-shirt off carelessly, or dumping his jeans on the floor like they just don't matter. She kisses him delicately, fingers brushing his chest as though he's golden, lets him take the lead and makes the softest, most teasing noises he's ever heard - Paul finds himself wishing she'd say something filthy, challenge him, pushing him towards it instead of waiting for him to touch her.

He realises he's going to have to tell her what he wants, but he's already decided this is very much more John's thing than his because Paul feels himself get hot and uncomfortable before he speaks. 

"Will you..." he nods vaguely down to his lap (not wearing John's jeans, not even he would be that rude, to let her remove the jeans of the other boy he appears to be sleeping with) and hopes she gets what he means; he really doesn't want to have to spell it out. "I really want..."

Dot smiles shyly and he's reminded forcibly that she was a virgin before she met him. That ratchets up the guilt another notch and Paul hopes to God he's not blushing from the shame of it - though actually probably best not to bring God into it at all, because he's about to get a blowjob from his girlfriend so he can pick up tips on how to do the same thing to his best mate the second he gets back from his holiday.

Yeah, best to leave God out of it altogether.

"Of course," Dot whispers, and starts moving down him, kissing his chest.

Paul realises that the thought that he might do this to John, that John _wants_ him to do it, gets him harder than Dot has done all night.

She spends a careful amount of time on his stomach, leaving practised, wet kisses on his skin just to tease him and Paul realises he's never noticed this before. Of course, he's never really noticed _any_ of this before, not from the point of view of a student, anyway - why would he? He's never been bothered with the logistics, just with what feels nice. He remembers teaching her, making a big fuss if he liked something she did so that she'd know to do it again in future, but he hadn't thought at the time that she might be nervous. Or unsure of what she was doing. Now he realises she must have been scared of doing it wrong.

Like _he_ is.

When she takes him in her mouth, Paul pays attention to what her tongue is doing, what exactly it is that feels nice. He's so busy making notes in his head - if he's going to do it, he wants to be bloody good at it - and memorising where her hands are that he almost forgets to enjoy it himself. But he can't think of anything worse than doing this to John and getting it wrong, being crap at it. There's no reason why he _should_ be good at it, but some strange, intricate part of him finds he wants to be better at this than Cynthia (and God, isn't that embarrassing? Paul realises that no girl has ever sent him this insane, made him think such odd, competitive things). He feels a rush of pleasure and tries to work out what Dot has just done to cause it; suddenly this act seems to have many layers to it - in the past it's always just been something nice you get if you're lucky but now... Now Paul feels as though he's taking his bloody driving test again.

When it's over and Paul watches through tired eyes as Dot swallows carefully and comes to sit next to him, he realises for the first time that that might not actually be all that pleasant for her. He waits a few moments whilst he gets his breath back, then speaks to her quiet form, curled up next to him.

"What's that... what's that like?" he asks. His voice sounds very loud in the silence; the needle has reached the end of Elvis's groove.

Dot looks up at him, watching his eyes. "I don't mind doing it," she says. "I know you like it."

Paul hopes he has the good grace to blush because she thinks he's thinking of _her_ instead of thinking of himself. "I know, and I do, I just... I mean, what does it feel like?"

He wishes, not for the first time, that John was here to do the dirty talking for him.

Dot frowns. "Well, like I say, it's alright. I do it for you really, not much for me."

Paul knows that if he hadn't just come he'd feel a kick of excitement in his stomach at the sudden image he gets of being down on his knees in front of John's bed. He realises that actually, he wouldn't _just_ be doing it for John.

And God knows what that says about Paul; what that _means._

"Yeah, but I mean... does it feel like you're going to... choke, or something?"

Dot laughs at him. "Are you trying to get me to say you're big, Paul?"

"No!" He protests, feeling himself flush. "I didn't mean - "

"Because you know I've never been with anyone but you; I honestly don't know."

"No! I really didn't - I don't need you to tell me - Oh God, I just meant... the first time you did it, was it uncomfortable?"

He feels relief as her smile turns more into a thoughtful frown. Paul realises he's practically holding his breath waiting for her answer. "I... I suppose so, a little bit, yeah." Dot shrugs, "But then I learnt a bit more about what I was supposed to do - learnt that it wasn't so difficult if I wasn't so... enthusiastic." Then she smiles and Paul wants to stop her, wants to ask exactly what she means by that but realises he doesn't have any valid excuses for asking such a question. "And... well," Dot laughs, looking embarrassed. "Then I asked Cyn, because she dated a few guys before John."

Paul feels a kick of shame that he wishes _he_ could just ask Cyn. "Oh?" He pretends to laugh a bit, as though he finds this whole thing funny rather than deadly serious. "And what did Cyn say?"

"Oh, just the obvious things, the things boys like, you know."

But Paul wants to scream that no, he _doesn't_ know. But he would rather die up on stage and lose his voice in front of a packed audience of dancing girls than get this wrong; for some reason he wants to make John lose it, completely and totally, maybe so that he'll stay, Paul doesn't know. Realises that it's deathly important to him all of a sudden though.

Then for the first time, Paul realises that actually, maybe he should repay Dot the favour. "Come here," he says, pulling her to him for a kiss. She pulls away and laughs when she feels how passionate about it he's being, then the laugh turns into a grateful moan as he slides his hand up between her legs, pushing aside her underwear. He feels relieved that this is at least something he _definitely_ knows how to do.

 

 

Paul spends his Sunday sat out in the garden with his dad and Mike, listening whilst Jim reads bits out of the Echo, then they try between the three of them to finish the crossword. It's almost three in the afternoon by the time Paul decides to go in and make them all a cup of tea, eager to get in the shade for a little bit, already beginning to feel his nose start to burn. 

He's drumming his fingers on the worktop, creating a new tune out of thin air and waiting for the kettle to whistle when the phone starts to ring. 

His mind is still on the new melody he was creating when he answers. "Hello?"

"Bloody hell, where've you been?"

The sound of John's voice has some sort of instant physical reaction and Paul feels a strange ache begin to develop in his chest. "Hi to you too. What d'you mean 'where've I been'?"

"I rang you earlier. Twice." John says. "It's not easy to get to the phone here, you know; I've got to walk down a country lane and everything."

Paul almost laughs. "Wow, a whole lane, eh? No buses, then?"

"No, they ride on the backs of peasants down here. So, where were you?"

"Bloody hell, I was outside in the garden, Sherlock - should I check in with you first next time?"

"It'd be helpful, yeah," John says. "Old man Jim doing the crossword, is he?"

Paul smiles at John's stupid name for his father and his accurate knowledge of his crossword habits. "Yeah, me and Mike are trying to guess the clues."

"Bloody hell," John groans. "It's life in the fast lane for you lot, isn't it?"

"Well what about you? Strolling arm in arm down country lanes with Mimi, are you?"

"Piss off," John says, though Paul can hear he's smiling. "The old dragon's back up at the farmhouse, giving the cows or the chickens hell or something, knowing her - lay faster! Lay faster!" Paul laughs loudly. "Julia's here though, she wants to say hi." There is the muffled sound of a phone being passed over and then Julia's voice invades the line. "Hi Paul! Is it hot there? It's dead hot here today, I'm _sweltering."_

She sounds so much like John's mum that Paul feels a chill run up the back of his neck. It hits him briefly that it might be getting to John, having a mini-Julia running around the place all the time. "Yeah, it's hot here too, Ju; boiling."

"Right, that's enough," Paul hears John say in the background. "Come on, give it up." The phone is passed back and then he hears voices at a slight distance, obviously still speaking away from the phone. "And bugger off now, I want a second by myself."

"But John - "

"Piss off, Ju."

Then reluctantly, "Alright. Bye Paul!" 

"Bye Jules!" Paul shouts.

"Ow! That was down my bloody ear-hole, you twat."

Paul laughs. "Sorry."

"Anyway, you're too late, she's fucked off. And good riddance, too."

Paul listens to the static of the telephone line for a second then says carefully, "So, what's it like there - you alright?"

"God, what's that, your counsellor voice?"

He immediately feels embarrassed. "Alright then, sod off, I don't care," Paul says, kicking his foot against the sideboard that holds the phone and then regretting it as pain sears through his toe.

"That's more like it," John says. "So, what have you been - "

"Wait a second," Paul interrupts. "The kettle's whistling, I've got to take it off the stove." He goes and when he comes back, he can hear John sighing down the phone, tapping his fingers. "Sorry."

"Last time I give you a dirty phone call," John says. And immediately Paul's eyes go wide.

"What?" He blanches. "Is this a dirty phone call?"

"Well, it was going to be before you raced off to get your kettle like a housewife. Now I've got an image of you in wrinkled stockings and a apron and I'll be honest, it's knocked me off the boil."

"But... you're in a phone box."

"So? I was only going to tell you what I'd been thinking about; wasn't going to start tugging myself off in the middle of the countryside. God, what d'you think I am?"

Paul almost laughs; can hear that John is smiling too. "I'd best not answer that," he says, then waits a heartbeat. "So... what have you been thinking about, then?"

"Oh, now he wants to know."

And Paul realises he _does_ want to know. He takes it as a sure sign of John beginning to send him mad that he actually wants to participate in this conversation at all really, given the fact that he's suddenly ready to get a filthy phone call from his best mate when he should probably be out with his girlfriend somewhere instead. Paul has a vague feeling that he doesn't quite know what's happening to him. But in the same moment realises that he doesn't know how to change it either; his relationship with John has always been a bit like a steamroller, just barrelling along and flattening everything in it's path, making everything else seem less important - always has.

"Was a bit of a stupid time for you to go away really," Paul says, glancing through the back window at Mike and his dad, still safely sat on the lawn.

"Yeah, I should have just told Mimi, 'Look, I'm defiling Paul this week, I can't _possibly_ come away with you...'" Paul laughs at this, finds himself twisting the telephone cord around his fingers and stops. There is a brief pause and then John says, "I keep imagining you wearing my jeans, you know."

Paul feels a shiver of excitement run through him, presses the phone closer to his ear as though hoping to hear more of John's voice. "They're - they're upstairs in my bedroom," he replies, wondering where his ability to have an easy, charming comeback has gone.

John sighs, but Paul can hear he's still smiling. "God, you're good at this, aren't you?" 

He huffs, "Well, I don't do it very often."

"Neither do I," John tells him, but Paul suspects he does with Cynthia sometimes, when they're out in Hamburg or when she's in Hoylake and can't get away. "So come on then, have you been wearing them?"

Paul feels himself squirm, checks the window again to check his dad and Mike aren't listening. "Yeah, I had them on on Friday. I - " Paul scratches at the side of his neck, feeling uncomfortable. "I wore them to bed for a bit."

There is a second in which he wonders whether John has disappeared from the line, but then he hears him swallow. "Bloody hell," John says, and his voice sounds deep, wavering, which causes Paul's stomach to flutter. "Did you..."

"What?"

"Did you get off?"

Even though no one can see him, Paul immediately flushes. "Christ, John - no! I just... fell asleep."

He can practically hear the eye-roll. "You probably wrote a romantic song about it too, didn't you?"

"Oh... piss off."

John laughs down the phone and it sounds so familiar and warm that Paul realises a bit too late that he's smiling. "Well, if you haven't yet, I want you to. I want you to go upstairs and put them on and think about me whilst you - "

"John! For God's sake, my dad's sitting outside!" Paul says, peering out of the window, checking and double checking that Mike and Jim haven't moved. Down the phone he hears John laugh again, though it's softer now. 

"It's okay, no need to call for him; I've already rang him today and had this chat with him."

"That's - God," Paul says, putting a hand over his eyes and realising that's no help at all. "You're sick, aren't you?"

"Not as sick as you're going to be when you wank whilst wearing my jeans," John laughs.

"I'm not - I am _not_ going to do that," Paul says indignantly, absolutely sure of the fact, categorically and utterly _positive_ about it. "No way."

"Ah, but you will, though; I know you. You'll go off the phone now and you won't be able to stop thinking about it. Then later you'll go upstairs and you'll see them lying over the back of your chair and you won't be able to stop yourself."

Paul registers that whilst it _sounds_ like just a pure statement of fact that happens to be true to John, it could also be seen as a challenge. He considers the possibility that that might be true - John might be challenging him to it. "And what about you? I bet you aren't wearing my jeans whilst - " He realises he can't possibly bring himself to say it down the phone, even though they've sat in the same room whilst they've done it and now even done it to each other. "Y'know."

He can tell from the lazy sound of John's voice (still strangely intimate in his ear, reminding him of Thursday night) that he's smiling. "No, couldn't risk bringing them with me, if Mimi saw me wearing them she'd tell me to stop looking like a tramp."

"I don't dress like a - "

"Yes you do. But I've still been doing it, thinking of you."

Coming off the back of an insult, Paul almost misses what John means by that. But when he realises what's just been said, he feels heat starting to bloom in his stomach. "Have you?"

"Yeah, twice a fucking day; you've corrupted me, Paul."

Arousal seems to mix with laughter in his chest and he leans in closer to the phone, realising he wishes John was there; has done all day. "Yeah, of course - that was _me,_ you're such an angel, aren't you?"

"Perfect," John says. "Unlike you, doing filthy things in my clothes."

Paul is aware that he hasn't done anything - doesn't _plan_ to do anything, but he still heats up. "Why're you so hung up on me doing it if you're not actually going to see it?" He asks, still leaning into the phone, having almost forgotten the outside world entirely. His father and his entire jazz band could walk through the living room and Paul would hardly notice.

"Well, then every time I wear them in future I won't be able to think of anything else, will I?" John asks. The sound of his voice over the telephone line is dripping into Paul's stomach like hot lava, making him warmer every time he speaks. And when did John's voice start having this effect on him? Paul wonders. How did he ever get by before keeping his mind fixed on things whilst listening to John speak?

Paul feels like the world has turned suddenly upside down and he isn't sure what to do about it. Isn't sure he _wants_ to do anything about it; things look more interesting this way up.

"Sick, sick, sick," Paul says, but he's grinning and he knows John can hear it in his voice, the way he's curling his words.

"If you got any different you'd be disappointed," John tells him, then his tone changes swiftly. "Oh God, here come the Terriers."

"What?" Paul frowns.

"Jules and Jackie, following me round like a couple of little Yorkshire Terriers. I've got to go."

"Oh - right."

"See you Wednesday, yeah?"

Paul feels slightly stunned by the sudden change. "Ah, yeah. See you." He listens as the line goes dead, eventually snaps out of it and puts the phone back on it's cradle. He feels mildly flustered, caught between the mundane regularities of the living room around him and the warm, melting feeling of John's voice. They've always had an ability to create a bubble around them, shut out the outside world and all it's influences, but now it seems... worse. Stronger. Paul isn't sure which world he's in for a moment, then realises that he has no choice.

He's still standing there, leaning against the sideboard in a daze a few moments later when Mike walks in and finds him, staring into space.

"Earth to Paul," Mike says, waving a hand in front of him. Paul bats him away as soon as he snaps out of it completely. "What the hell are you doing standing here like a prick? The kettle went ages ago."

"Just thinking," Paul shrugs, suspects now that he really is flushed, hopes it's not too obvious.

"Yeah well," Mike mutters, going into the kitchen to get the tea himself. "First time for everything, I suppose."

 

 

 

The jeans have become a bit like a challenge now, lying there over the back of his chair just as John described, making him think. Paul lies in bed on Sunday night, shifting position every few minutes because he can't get to sleep, can't stop _thinking,_ remembering the tone in John's voice; sure but also daring. And wasn't that what he'd wanted from Dot? Well, now he has it and Paul finds he's still just lying here, unsure of what to do.

Eventually he gets up, pulls the jeans on quickly and gets back into bed, pushing himself into the mattress, feeling that ripe ache in his stomach spread all over, weighing in his chest. He doesn't do anything, wonders how John can manage to torture him from miles away and realises that this thing - whatever it is - he can't stop it. 

Paul knows he'll wake up too warm and uncomfortable from wearing clothes to bed in this stupid summer heat but he does it anyway, wondering why he's so stupid, wondering when it started meaning this much to him, when it started being _everything_ to him.

It's not just sex. He knows that.

Doesn't want to think about what it really is.

 

 

 

Paul is shaving when the noise of the post dropping through the letterbox floats up the stairs. He is concentrating on the slick slide of the blade on his skin, mind elsewhere, when Mike appears in the bathroom doorway. "Something for you," he says, peering down at it, clearly finding it very interesting. "From John."

Paul reaches out so fast to grab the card, he nicks himself with the blade.

"Alright, alright," Mike laughs as the postcard is snatched from his hand. "Couldn't make out what it meant, anyway. You're very jumpy this morning, aren't you?"

"Bugger off, Mike," Paul says in a light, distracted way, already peering at the postcard himself and ignoring the stinging cut on the underside of his chin.

His brother mutters, huffs a little bit with indignation but when Paul next looks up, he's gone. And he can finally take in what's on the back of the postcard that proclaims, 'Wales - Land Of Voice' over a vista of stunning green hills.

A pair of jeans. John has drawn a pair of jeans. 

And then an accurate - if disfigured - caricature version of himself next to them, waving. Underneath he's simply written, 'From John' in that slanting, scruffy scrawl that Paul has all over bits of paper in the tin he keeps for lyrics and song chords in his bedroom. He catches himself in the mirror and - after noticing the red bloom of blood on his chin from the cut - realises he's grinning.

 

 

 

The postcard goes on his wall. But the jeans stay firmly on his chair, underneath his jacket in case his dad comes in looking for washing - they're not dirty and Paul doesn't want them soaked and squeezed and mangled, all traces of John gone from them just yet. 

He goes out, does other things, sees other people, visits George, but the feeling of John in his head never really goes. He's like a ghost lingering there, always just below the surface of Paul's skin and he doesn't mind that, thinks it feels pretty comfortable anyway.

He will _not,_ however, be giving in to John's challenge. Paul avoids the thought of it; any time it slips into his brain he skips onto something else, not letting himself imagine. He won't, he won't, he won't.

Monday seems to slide into Tuesday with the agonising slow speed of a dentist’s appointment, and Tuesday morning crawls into Tuesday afternoon. 

Paul doesn't keep looking at the phone every time he passes it, and he certainly doesn't keep going upstairs to his bedroom, looking at the jeans and then chickening out and coming back downstairs again.

As the night draws in, he sits in the living room with Mike and Jim, watching the television, though later if someone asked him, Paul knows he wouldn't be able to tell them what was on. He feels jittery and impatient and like his fingers are itching; he almost wants to walk up to Menlove Avenue - even though he knows John isn't back yet - entertains the thought briefly of how mad that would be, just strolling in and saying hello to Alun before going upstairs and crawling into John's bed, pulling the covers over him. He could stay there until the morning, until John got back and found him, and then maybe this itching in his skin would go away.

When it gets to midnight and Mike and his dad amble off to bed, Paul sits there for a little while longer on the fraying, familiar chair in the living room. He knows he should probably go to bed but still isn't quite sure what to do with himself, feels like bed isn't quite right, like he can't quite settle anywhere. But eventually he gives up fighting with himself, climbs the stairs and shuts the door to his bedroom behind him. He undresses quietly, then - not thinking too much about what it is he's doing - he pulls on John's jeans and gets into bed. After a second he gets stuffy, throws off the blankets and just lies there, staring at the ceiling.

Paul can hear himself breathing quietly in the darkness and notices that the longer he lies there, the faster it becomes. He thinks about the sound of John's voice in his ear, about the clean, precise press of his body that day in the bathroom at the pub and the fumbled, unsteady hand that grabbed Paul's, showing him what he wanted after talking himself into such a state.

And then Paul gives in, unzips the fly on the jeans and pushes them down just slightly, riding low around his waist, the ungiving denim resting heavily against his skin. He's hard already, which doesn't really surprise him - he's been in a half aroused state ever since John spoke to him on the phone, maybe even before that, since he decided he was going to kiss his way down John's body as soon as he got him alone.

Paul shuts his eyes, embarrassed all over at what he's doing and then curls his fingers around his dick. He tightens his grip, unable to suppress the image of John doing this to himself, far away and alone in some farmhouse bedroom somewhere. He lets the memory of John telling him about it do what it's meant to do, knows that John knew _full_ well what he was saying when he confessed such a thing and then burns with shame when he admits to himself that he's doing just what it was John challenged him to do. 

And maybe if it didn't feel so nice, he'd stop.

But now he's started, the images in his head won't relent; the way John was looking at him in the mirror behind him in the bathroom, the feel of hard, insistent lips on his neck. And the quiet, slow session in the middle of Thursday night, the feel of John being unusually soft with him, tangling their legs underneath the bed sheets and trying not to make a noise, aware of nothing but the slide of a mouth against his.

And it doesn't take Paul very long until he's coming on his stomach, careful to keep the jeans out of the way, kicking them off as soon as he gets his breath back.

Afterwards, he wonders what the hell he was doing, feeling hot and embarrassed. _I'm never doing that again,_ he tells himself, as he falls asleep.

 

 

 

He's making his dinner the next day when there's a knock at the door and, forgetting that they aren't his clothes, Paul wipes his sauce covered fingers on his jeans as he goes to answer it. He's singing to himself in a distracted sort of way, but he shuts up when he sees who is on his doorstep.

"You're early," Paul says, feeling something odd happen to his pulse as he looks at John.

"You gonna let me in, then? Or do I have to stand out here all afternoon?"

He tries to cover how flustered he is, stepping aside and letting John into the hallway, then closing the door behind him. "Um, nice holiday?"

"Just riveting," John replies. Paul can see he's revelling in the fact that he's surprised him, caught him off guard; John loves to be the one in control, the one with the upper hand.

"I was just - dinner, d'you want some?"

"That depends," John says, following him through to the kitchen. "What're you having?"

"Bacon sarnies, brown sauce."

"Won't say no then." 

John leans against the working surface and Paul tries to remember what he was doing, where he was up to. As he turns away to grab two more slices of bread, he can tell John is staring at him, probably at his arse. And the thought makes Paul smile. 

"So, you planning on holidaying with Mimi and the girls every year, then?"

"Na, thought I might go with you next year."

When Paul turns around, he sees that John is grinning at him. He returns it. "I _do_ look better in a fur hat than Mimi."

"I vote we try that out next gig, you wear a big fur hat at the mic; bet you won't get half as much skirt in the dressing room when we're done."

Paul hands over a finely crafted bacon sandwich, taking a bite of his own. "Ah, wouldn't bother me too much."

John eats then smirks. "Mind elsewhere, is it?"

"Somewhere else indeed," Paul says, then carefully lets his eyes flit down and back up John's body, leaning so casually against the kitchen units. He feels more confident now, remembering Sunday's phone call, piecing together the fact that to be here this early, John must have dumped his bags in his bedroom and come straight here. To him.

They stare at each other for a long minute, then John is crossing the tiny kitchen and putting his buttie down on the plate beside Paul, taking the half eaten sandwich Paul is holding and dropping it there too so that they both have free hands, then leaning in against him. His hands go either side of Paul's body on the worktop and Paul feels thrillingly trapped.

"Where would that be, then?" John asks, body pressed against him, mouths inches away.

"Well," Paul says, instantly forgetting about his lunch the second he touches John's waist. "It was in Wales, but it appears it's back now."

John doesn't mess about, just leans in and kisses him and Paul grabs on to the back of his t-shirt, dragging him closer. Relief swims in his head, feeling the somersault of his stomach as John bites gently on his bottom lip, pushing against him. 

After a second or two, John breaks the kiss, breathing uneven. "The house _is_ empty, isn't it?"

Paul wants to laugh. "No, dad has his face pressed against the back window watching us." John actually looks and Paul smirks, taking the opportunity of having John's neck exposed to him and kissing it, feeling John shiver against him.

"They at work and school?" 

Paul nods against the curve of his skin just below the ear, smelling the unfamiliar soap and pressing wet lips against every sensitive spot, stopping himself from leaving marks everywhere, feeling the tug of wanting to. And when he moves further down, meeting the neck of John's (his) t-shirt, John makes a frustrated groaning sound and shifts his hips impatiently. "God, come on, Paul." 

He isn't sure what John is actually asking for (suspects John probably doesn't know himself) but Paul abandons his job anyway and the second he lifts his head, John kisses him fiercely, almost knocking the breath out of him. "Christ," John says against his lips so that it barely makes any sense. "I've been going fucking mad."

Paul wonders whether that was him going mad too, sitting around the house all night last night and not knowing what to do with himself. He wonders if that's what John means, but knows it probably isn't; he probably means this, means sex and shifting against each other in too-warm clothing. Then his stomach jumps when he thinks about what he's going to do, what he's already _decided_ he's doing. 

What he _wants_ to do.

"Come on," he says, trying to prise John off him for long enough. "Let's go upstairs, eh?" He gets a brief frown in return then quickly says, "I'm not doing this in the bloody kitchen."

That seems good enough, John lets him go then takes a noisy slurp of the cup of tea Paul was drinking before he arrived and follows him down the narrow hallway, turning and going up the stairs. It's all quite civilised until they reach the door to Paul's bedroom, then John kisses him again, obviously deciding he's been patient enough and they manage to stumble in, Paul kicking the door behind them. 

"So," John says, breathing uneven, effectively pinning Paul up against his bedroom wall with his body. "Did you do it?" He asks, fingers running around the inside of the waistband of the jeans Paul is wearing. There doesn't need to be an answer though, because Paul feels himself go instantly hot and avoids John's eyes. "Bloody hell, you did, didn't you?" He sounds fascinated, and surprised and turned on all at once. Paul thinks that if he wasn't dying of mortification, he might enjoy it. Then John is kissing him again, clearly fired on by this thought. "Jesus, what're you trying to do to me?"

"You were the one who told me to do it," Paul points out fairly, feeling a brief surge of satisfaction at the combination of John's words and the look he's giving him.

"Well, if you're just going to do anything I tell you then I have some seriously filthy ideas - want to hear them?"

"No!" Paul tells him, almost laughing. For a moment he doesn't trust himself _not_ to just do them, considering he's still in the middle of trying to complete the last graphic thing John told him he wanted. He slips his hand up to the back of John's neck and pulls him closer, kissing him again, feeling John respond to the slow, precise slide of his tongue. "Thought of you though," he says, and hears John groan against him, "when I came."

"Right - off," John says, suddenly business-like and removes Paul's t-shirt, pulling off his own in the process. They come back together for another messy kiss, the flare of skin on skin contact causing Paul to shiver even though it's far from cold. He watches as John catches his eye, maintaining contact as his fingers move very pointedly down to the waistband of the jeans fitting Paul's hips so snugly. The buttons come undone slowly - Paul trying to keep his head so that he can be in charge of himself enough to go down on John properly, not just make a mess of it - but watching John as he undresses him starts to blur the coherent thoughts in his head. Paul can feel himself slipping into that place where nothing else matters, just John. Just him and John, the two of them.

Clever fingers slip inside the warmth of his boxers and Paul lets his head fall back against his bedroom wall, unable to stop his eyes from slipping closed. He knows deep down that he should really stop John, take over and push him down onto the bed but... he decides he'll let himself have a moment of this, John gripping at him and stroking him with agonizing slowness. Paul feels like he's waited years for this, not just a few days.

"Paul."

At the sound of his name, Paul opens his eyes and finds John watching him. He doesn't know what it means, the look John is giving him, but it's dark and intent and Paul feels his stomach flip over again. He swallows, aware that he's panting slightly. It seems to take him a second to realise, but then he suddenly knows that he has to stop this now, or he'll be too far gone to do what he has planned.

Taking charge, Paul leans forward and kisses John, hard. He takes control of it, lips sliding against John's mouth until he feels like he's as bruised and sore as John imagined him to be, that night, then he tugs at John's hand. "Lie down," he says. "On the bed."

For a second John just looks at him, frown lines edging closely onto his forehead, eyes confused. But then he does what Paul asks, waits patiently whilst Paul kicks off his jeans and then crawls onto the bed. The fingers that remove John's last pieces of clothing are shaking oh-so-slightly, nerves getting to Paul as he moves under John's unrelenting stare. When all of their clothes are discarded in a messy heap (no longer caring whose is whose) Paul straddles John's lap, quite unaware that he's biting his lip, making it red and hot.

At first he tries to do it like Dot, starting slowly and carefully, but soon realises that just isn't him - or at least not him with John, not in this situation. So Paul simply kisses John on the mouth - short and chaste - then moves down his body, coming to rest at his stomach where he glances up, meeting John's eyes - he's leaning back on his elbows and there is an undisguised look of surprise on his face.

Paul feels triumphant at that, knowing he can still shock the unshockable.

"Paul..." John sounds shaky, almost unsure on Paul's behalf, but Paul isn't unsure about this at all, realises he only was very briefly. Nervous but he _wants_ this. "Christ... really?"

He doesn't say anything, merely licks his lips and then takes John into his mouth.

At first it's strange, he takes a minute to adjust but then tries to calm his nerves, remembers not to be too enthusiastic and relaxes. He flicks his tongue the way he recalls Dot doing and the resulting groan from John spurs him on, stops him clenching the bed sheets long enough to use his hands too. Paul feels a strange kind of dirty, illicit arousal kick in his stomach from the fact he's doing this and he manages to pull back a little so that it doesn't get too much when John starts to move his hips, thrusting into Paul's mouth as he swears liberally. The thought flits into Paul's mind that he's _really_ glad they did this in an empty house, because he doesn't think he could shut John up now if he wanted to.

He's doing something fancy with his tongue when suddenly John's hand is in his hair. The fingers that slide down to the back of his neck remind Paul that he's aching himself, desperate and ready and already thinking about pressing himself against John's hand as soon as this is over, probably far too turned on by this than he should be.

The hand in his hair grips tighter suddenly and before he realises what's happening, Paul is swallowing greedily, trying to be graceful about it but eventually having to sit up, wiping his chin with the back of his hand. When John sees him do it, he groans again, hips seeming to spasm a final time at the sight of it. "Jesus bloody Christ, Paul!" He says, dropping back onto the bed and rubbing a hand over his eyes.

Paul moves up and lies beside him, still twisted with want, feeling desperate and heavy and like his brain is clouded over now, now that he needs something himself. And he tries to give John a second (can see his chest still rising and falling rapidly) but his body won't seem to wait, shifts onto his side and presses himself against John, feeling demanding and needy and full. He kisses the skin on John's neck, tries to move against this warm, willing body until John gets the message and takes hold of his chin, bringing Paul's mouth up for a kiss. It's good, it feels warm and messy and wet but... it's not enough. Paul feels himself shifting restlessly against John's hip.

"Please..." He eventually says, desperate and hot, and John finally touches him, wrapping firm, sure fingers around him. Paul almost groans with relief.

"Come on," John mutters, hand stroking him fast, lips kissing his mouth. "Come on, Paul."

He remembers the hot, heavy feeling of John against his tongue, concentrates on the voice urging him on and suddenly feels the knot inside him unravel. He realises in a distracted sort of way that he's moaning, lips still brushing against John's mouth, and for a very long moment they're sharing the same air, breathing fast against each other until Paul shifts, pressing his face into the pillow beside him to try and get his breathing under control.

He is basking in the relaxed, heavy glow of lying there when suddenly John cries out. "Oh, bloody hell, Paul!"

The tone is annoyed, which Paul certainly isn't expecting after _that,_ and he drags himself up off the pillow to frown. "What?"

"Oh, you've got brown sauce on my bloody jeans, you arsehole!" John says, having retrieved them off the floor. He is picking at the rather unmistakable stain of brown sauce from earlier.

Paul doesn't know whether to laugh or potentially wound John with the alarm clock sitting on the bedside table. Instead he settles for pulling John away from the jeans and kissing him.

"John?"

"What?"

"Shut up."

And surprisingly, he does.


End file.
